


Regression Progression

by sarahmonious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, Episode Tag, Episode: s10e12 About A Boy, Guilty Dean, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mark of Cain, Multiple Orgasms, Pining Sam, Underage Dean, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3419141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahmonious/pseuds/sarahmonious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean neglects to use the hex bag to turn back to his adult self. Things are... different. AU from 10.12, About a Boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regression Progression

The decision is quick with no second thoughts. Though he has possession of the hex bag, he can tell Sam is delirious from being thrown into the cupboard and is in no shape to defend himself. A single, solitary moment hangs between them all, waiting to see who moves first. 

Dean beats them to it.

In his left hand he holds the hex bag and with his right he dives for the knife and then swings up in one graceful motion, sticking Hansel right between his ribcage. Dean doesn’t spare him a second glance as he moves toward the witch. Her stunned anger gives him the advantage he needs, and despite his shorter than normal stature, he has no trouble shoving the hex bag in between her rotting teeth and pushing her into the furnace. 

Her screams are the farthest thing from his mind as he turns to face his brother.

*  
The drive back to the bunker is agonizingly silent. 

Sam’s… Dean’s not sure what Sam is. Angry, definitely. Shaken up, maybe. And Dean can relate. He’s really not sure what to think. To say he’s happy about the Mark being gone would be a gross understatement. Fucking ecstatic, more like. The pulsing _need_ that had been growing steadily in him (again) was gone, and for the first time in a long time, he simply felt _human._

Unfortunately, for the rest of his life he’d be paying the price for that normality.

Internally, besides the Mark being gone, nothing had changed. He felt the same as he always did. But a glance in any reflective surface or movement of his body reminded him that everything was different now. It would be another twenty years and then some before he’d look in the mirror and see the face that just yesterday had stared back at him. 

_"I wanted you back, Dean. You! We could’ve… we could’ve fixed it, the Mark. This didn’t have to be the permanent solution!”_

He feels an almost insurmountable guilt well up inside him at the thought of Sam’s last words to him. So he shoves it away, locks it in the vault where all the other self-destructive thoughts lie, and forces himself to unclench his jaw. 

Finally, hours later, after a handful of gas station stops for refueling and another round of Slim Jims, the bunker comes into sight. Sam pulls into the garage, silent as ever, and maneuvers the Impala into her usual spot.

When his brother takes the keys out of the ignition, Dean waits, expecting to finally hear the dressing down he deserves.

He doesn't know if he's relieved or nervous when Sam simply opens the door and heads inside.

*

If he's completely honest, being fourteen again feels fantastic. No more arthritic fingers, no more back spasms in the middle of the night, and, of course, no more downward spirals into a murderous rage. It's still a lot of getting used to - the height thing is pretty awful, and he confirmed the hard way after the first night back in the bunker that his alcohol tolerance most definitely didn't transfer over.

But there's other things too that trouble him. Like the fact that he feels more. Little events become tipping points for near-overwhelming sadness or bursts of energy so intense that he can't focus on anything. Dean's not sure if it has something to do with adjusting to life again without the Mark's effects, or simply because even though his mind thinks he's an adult, his body obviously does not.

It's during one of these fits of energy that he's scouring the web, looking for anything out of the ordinary that had popped up recently in the news. Sam's still distant, only coming out of his room to grab a bite to eat and bring it back in with him, eyes skittering away from Dean if he happens to be in the same room as him. Dean's doing his best to try to give him time, knows that if this whole age regression thing is weird enough for him, it's just as weird for Sam, the one person who's been forced to share Dean's space for years upon years.

An hour or two goes by before he stumbles upon an article about strange maulings in an abandoned factory in Detroit. Dean feels a thrill swoop through him: a hunt is definitely what he needs right now.

He chews his lip. While he has no problem hopping in the Impala and driving off to wherever he so pleases, Sam would have a cow. Especially since he "technically" isn't old enough to drive.  
Dean sighs and pushes himself up from the table. Now is as good a time as any to stop pussy-footing around his brother.

He clears his throat at Sam's door and gives it three quick raps with his knuckles.

"Sam?" he says. "Put some pants on, I wanna show you something." Dean lets out a small breath of relief when Sam cracks the door open.

"What," is all Sam says.

"Found a hunt," Dean says, damn near bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Something's chewing   
up people in Detroit. Would drive over there myself, but you know--"

"No," Sam interrupts, staring down at Dean's shoulder instead of meeting his eyes.

Dean pulls back, as if Sam had slammed the door in his face. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean _no._ You're half the size you were. That's... just, no."

"Don't know if you remember or not, but I did pretty damn well hunting when I was this size the first time around," Dean says, hackles raised.

"Only because Dad was an idiot who thought bringing along a teenager was a good idea."

"Oh really, Sam? Really? We're gonna go down that road? What the fuck is your problem, anyway? Thought you'd be happy I'd be back in the game without going crazy psycho murderer on everyone."

Sam clenches his jaw and looks as if he really wants to say something, but all that comes out is,   
"Leave it, Dean." But fuck that - Dean's ready to go a few rounds, can feel the reckless energy zinging up his spine.

"You think just because I look like this now you can just boss me around? I can do whatever the hell I want--"

"I said no, Dean!" Sam shouts. And Dean. He cannot explain or rationalize the shorting out of the wires in his brain, how it made the connection to produce the next words out of his mouth.

"Yes, sir," he mumbles. And then promptly clicks his teeth shut, eyes staring wide.  
Sam finally looks at him, mouth fallen slightly open, cheeks pink.

"Um," Dean says. "Uh. Nevermind."

He doesn't sprint back to his room, but it's a near thing.

*

The pillow isn't doing much to muffle his wracking sobs.

He can't stop. Every time he tries, all he can think about is how much he misses his old body, how stupid he was to not give the hex bag a quick squeeze while he held it in his hands, how Sam will always be older than him now, almost a full generation ahead of Dean, quicker to go gray and stoop over with pain and get weaker and frail and--

“Dean?”

Shit. 

Sam gives a hollow knock on Dean’s bedroom door. “Are you - is everything okay?” Dean doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to do anything.

“Go ‘way,” he says. He can’t stand his own petulance, but he can’t seem to help that either.

Sam, being the stupid jerk that he is, doesn’t listen. The door opens and Dean tries to ignore the hot shame that swoops through him as well as Sam’s intuitive stare. 

“Your hearing sucks, you know that?” Dean says through tears and stuffy nose. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Sam asks again, ignoring him. 

“I don’t feel like murdering anyone if that’s what you’re asking.” Of course Sam would only care about any lingering affects from the Mark. 

Sam sighs. “Okay,” Dean hears him mutter to himself.

The bed dips where Dean’s feet are curled up underneath him. “I’m not mad at you,” his brother says.

Dean scoffs. “Could’a fooled me.”

“I know,” Sam says. “I’m sorry. I just… this is weird, man. Really weird. And, I know, I shouldn’t even be saying that because you’re the one who actually has to deal with it. But Dean, I look at you, and you’re you but….” After barely any interaction for a week, Dean keeps his mouth shut and waits for Sam, not wanting to screw anything up further. “You know what I feel when I look at you now? I feel like I’m… like I’m a kid again. Looking up to you. Wanting you to think I was anything but the snot-nosed brat who followed you around.”

“Joke’s on me. Now I’m the snot-nosed brat.” 

“No.” He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, forcing him to turn and face him. “You know what you are? Selfless. Incredible. You… you pulled a Dean Winchester back there, man.”

“Sam,” Dean shifts uncomfortably. 

“No,” Sam says again. “I mean it. You saved Tina and me, you’re Mark-free, and here I am, selfishly thinking about how… how different things are now.”

Suddenly, Dean gets it.

“Sam, you idiot,” he says, sitting up. Sam pulls a face, but the blush down his neck gives him away.

“Dean, you’re fourteen.”

“Uh, if you really wanna get technical, I’m like, 85, so shut up and come here.” Sam doesn’t need to be told twice and crushes his lips against Dean’s, giving a little moan. They’re both breathing heavily, and Dean appreciates the irony of making out like a horny teenager. 

“Ugh,” Dean pulls back when the salty taste of his drying tears becomes too much. “Hand me a tissue.” Sam huffs a laugh but complies. Dean’s face is leaking and he’s still too embarrassed to think about Sam seeing him have a breakdown like a kid throwing a tantrum, and yet Sam still loves him. _Sam still loves him._

Sam gives him a dopey look, like he can tell what Dean’s thinking, and that’s no good. “Yeah, yeah, get with the getting already,” he says.

“What a romantic,” Sam replies but shifts so he’s fully on the bed. Besides the one pair of jeans that he magically had on when he was turned, his sweatpants were the only thing he owned that could remotely fit. Sam slides them down with ease and, big shocker, Dean’s already hard as a rock. The first gentle touch of Sam’s fingers on his dick has him making soft whimpers, arching upward, with goddamn choirs of angels singing on high. He’s so sensitive it almost hurts. Sam’s hand is huge and callused and expertly trained on all Dean’s weak spots. 

“Missed you,” Sam mumbles into Dean’s skin as he kisses a trail down his neck.

“Been like - ungh, _shit_ \- three weeks, dude.” Sam is moving agonizingly slow, so Dean thrusts up oh jesus, that’s a mistake, because the pressure builds like an incoming freight train and he’s on knife’s edge to coming, and Sam’s not even undressed yet. “Oh god, Sam—Sam wait.”

Sam, the asshole, is smirking at him, but unbuckles his belt and slides down his jeans and boxers. They look ridiculous, both of them, but Dean doesn’t care. Sam’s dick curves up toward his belly, already slick with pre-come despite having barely been touched. Dean can’t hardly stand it a second longer and ruts up against Sam, needing more. 

Sam seems to agree; his hand engulfs both their dicks, and both push in close, hips touching. The slide of his palm up and down their shafts becomes easier with every stroke, and Sam runs his thumb over his own slit first and then slides directly over to Dean’s, giving an extra rub under the head of his cock. Dean moans, knows he sounds both obscene and ridiculous, and he’s close, so close. He reaches down and gently palms his balls, then Sam’s. His brother jerks, gripping their cocks tighter and pumping faster until Dean cries out, arching and thrusting and seeing stars.

When he comes back to a few moments later, Sam’s still working at a furious pace, and Dean hisses.

“Too much, too much, stop, Sam, oh god—” What felt so good only a few seconds ago becomes borderline painful, but Sam keeps going. “Sam, holy shit, please—”

“You can, just a few—just a few more,” Sam stutters out, rocking up against him. Dean’s dick is still twitching in Sam’s hand but sure enough, he’s well on his way to getting hard again, almost out of his mind with pain and pleasure. His nails grip tight into the meat of Sam’s shoulders, and he holds on for dear life. 

“Shit, oh shit, Dean,” Sam groans, and Dean can feel Sam’s cock twitch against his, come painting their bellies. Dean thinks, maybe, and punches out a one-two-three hard thrust and suddenly he’s coming again, his heels digging into the mattress as he spasms. This time he pushes Sam away from him because it’s too much, it’s too much. 

“Fuck,” he says when he can spare a breath.

“Later, definitely.” Sam falls down onto the mattress, chest heaving.

After a while, when Dean complains for the third time about the mess of drying come on them both, Sam rolls his eyes and heads to the bathroom for a washcloth. While his brother is gone, he takes a moment to trace his fingers over his completely smooth forearm — no scars of any kind. For the first time in a long time, he can’t help but think they just might be okay.


End file.
